Free The Psychological Solution by A. Hyatt Verrill

The Psychological Solution
    By A. Hyatt Verrill

CHAPTER I
    The Discovery of Columbus

    Henry Columbus, khaki clad, his ebon face gray with ashes and dust, and driver of one of those two-wheeled abominations maintained by the municipality of New York for the reception of rubbish and the dispersal of dust over passengers, was industriously emptying the ash cans on the north side of West 85th Street.
    It was a charming spring morning, and Henry, well content with the world and himself, was whistling cheerily while he worked. As he rolled the battered iron containers to the curb, and raising them, dumped their contents into his vehicle, he glanced at the miscellaneous odds and ends that poured from them, ever on the watch for some discarded but still serviceable article which he might salvage.
    Farther down the street, and working east from Amsterdam Avenue on the opposite side of the thoroughfare, was Tony Celentano with his wagon. Like Henry, the Italian was also on the alert for chance treasure-trove among the rubbish.
    As the dusky namesake of the famous discoverer reached the group of cans before a block of brown-stone front houses, he noticed that one of the receptacles was filled to overflowing with a bulging, patched, burlap bag.
    Whatever the contents were they were heavy, and wondering vaguely what the can contained, Henry heaved it over the edge of his cart. The bag. however, was tightly jammed into the can, and, in order to dislodge it, he was forced to clamber onto the half-filled wagon. Grumbling a bit at the extra labor involved, he grasped the sacking with a huge black paw and tugged at the bundle.
    ''Must be some folks' dawg must be daid," he muttered to himself, as he noticed the peculiar yielding limp character of the thing. "Must 'a been some pup," he continued. "Spec' he one of dem perlice dawgs mos' likely."
    Exerting more strength, Henry yanked the bundle, and the old burlap ripped open. The next instant the quiet street echoed to a blood-curdling screech, as the negro leaped from the wagon, and with wildly rolling eyes, dashed westward at breakneck speed, yelling as he ran.
    Had it not been for Celentano, Henry might be running yet. The Italian, startled at his fellow worker's scream, and seeing his mad dash, sprang across the street and seized Henry's flying coattails. Together the two rolled head over heels, Henry struggling to free himself and continue on his way; the Italian as intent on holding him and learning the cause of his fright.
    Although the hour was early, the negro's screams had aroused the neighborhood, and boudoir-capped feminine, and tousel-haired masculine heads were appearing at windows throughout the block. Two yellow and three checker taxis were already racing for the scene of uproar, and milk wagon drivers and other early wayfarers were running from all directions towards the struggling men. Last of all— and most remarkable for having been in the neighborhood when wanted—came a panting policeman.
    As the latter pushed his way through the group that had gathered about the negro and the Italian, Henry caught sight of the blue uniform and found his voice at last.
    "Lordy!" he gasped. "Lord A'mighty! T'ank de Lord you's come! Boss, dey's a daid man up yander in mah cart!"
    Instinctively, at the words, every head was turned, and everyone gazed half fearfully toward the wagon, which still stood where Henry had abandoned it in his flight.
    "Whatcha givin’ us?" demanded the officer. "Come along here and show me watcha hollerin' about."
    But Henry demurred. "No, sir, Boss." he exclaimed, fairly shaking with terror. "Ah ain' gwine near dat cart. No, sir, dey's a sack in a can wha's got a daid man inside. No, sir, Boss. Ah ain't aimin' to go meddlin' with no daid folks."
    But with the officer grasping his collar, Henry, despite his protests, was dragged unceremoniously towards the cart, with the crowd following and Tony bringing up the rear.
    Still skeptical, the officer stepped